


Serenade

by cosmicbubble



Category: Gundam SEED
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, Character Study, i just wanted to write from Nicol’s perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 13:54:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbubble/pseuds/cosmicbubble
Summary: But what can Nicol do - Nicol, the weakest of the elite?





	Serenade

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! This is my first gundam seed fic and I’m really excited!! I love the show, the characters, and so many things about it so I hope I did justice! Nicol is a very interesting character to me and I love him dearly!! I hope y’all enjoy!!

His hands tremble and quake, uncontrollably so.

It’s the middle of the night - or rather, according to the clock by his bedside, because the stars surround him no matter the time, he should be deep into slumber. He’s sure everyone else has drifted off into sleep, even Athrun. Tightly wound, stiff-shouldered Athrun Zala surely is asleep now. But instead, all Nicol can do is sit up, blankets surrounding him, and watch as his hands continue to shake.

He clenches his eyes closed; he’s used to this, it’s been more than enough time since he’s gone into his first battle. But when he closes his eyes, he sees the enemy - sees their machines, watches as explosions rip through the scenery. He hears their screams and final prayers. And he’s caused so much of it. He relies on his hands for so much, to control his machine, his Blitz, but they continue to fail him.

With trembling fingers, he plays a melody against the air surrounding him. One shaky movement after the other, the delicate hum of piano music fills his mind as he moves his hands accordingly. The world can be his stage - can be his audience, instead of his arch nemesis. It feels better when Nicol thinks of it that way.

The rhythm and familiarity of his fingers moving in the air, the sound of the piano echoing in his mind, begins to still the trembling of his fingers. It’s silent in his room, but the orchestra is beginning its crescendo in Nicol’s mind. He feels the end of the song coming and even without the instrument to rest his hands, he feels that same electricity surge through his veins - just like the feeling of a concert, just before the final bow.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized had been contained and ends up with a small smile on his face. The lights of a concert stage, the darkness of his small room aboard the ship; perhaps it’s all the same to him. It all quells the rumbling that overtakes everything.

And when the concert comes to an end, when the curtain falls on another evening, Nicol is finally able to close his eyes and fall into slumber - the shaking has subsided.

////

Nicol thinks of Yzak like staccato, because his voice comes in loud, short quips early in the morning. It’s muffled through the door to his room, but Nicol awakes to it nonetheless. He runs his hand through his wild green hair, a reminder to brush through it thoroughly, but instead his first instinct is to check on his fellow team member.

Yzak’s cursing by the time Nicol opens his room door, and Dearka leans against the wall just down the hallway. His shoulders are relaxed - so now he knows it’s nothing too serious - and there’s a playful smirk on his face.

“Yzak is furious,” Dearka scoffs, “He woke up to discover Athrun just beat his record in target practice - again.”

Nicol sighs, and he hears Yzak nearly screaming, “Just this once I tried to beat you at something! This doesn’t mean you’re better than me.” Nicol understands, he gets the need to feel good at something. He still smiles. His hands are firmly at his sides, unwavering.

He doesn’t have to be standing by their side, but he knows just how this will play out - Athrun will either retort back, a silly little jab that only makes Yzak angrier, or he will remain quiet and continue about his morning, which also makes Yzak angrier. Nicol imagines his comrade, face contorted with rage, with disappointment at losing to Athrun once again, the scar cutting across his face all the more damaging. Yzak has one too many reminders of loss.

Nicol has it too - the shaking, the sleepless nights. The emptiness that forms in his heart when he thinks about the future - he used to imagine beautiful concerts, spectacular stages, but now, he sees just the curtain call.

///

It’s a normal day, all things considered - his shoulders are tense and his muscles ache, anxiously anticipating the alarm to sound throughout the ship, for the signal to be given to launch. Nicol takes a moment and thinks of the Blitz, of his mobile suit. The ability to move through the battlefield undetected; it suits him perfectly. But it’s the weakest of all the mobile suits, and Nicol is certain this also suits him perfectly. A wimp called to duty only by a desire to stop the bloodshed of civilians - but he has nothing to show for it. Yzak has the scar that cuts into his face, dangerously close to his eye. Dearka and Athrun have their own fair share of demons, Athrun’s in particular coming in the form of the Strike mobile suit, battling for the enemy. What does Nicol have? Poor pianist Nicol, who cannot even play anymore because when he thinks of the battles ahead, his body yearns to run.

He eats dinner with Athrun that evening. The blue-haired boy rarely sits in the cafeteria of the ship, and the more Nicol thinks about it, the more he’s determined that he’s never even seen Athrun eat. He grows taller every month, so he must be eating somehow.

It’s almost methodical, the way his friend eats. Rhythmical, one beat at a time in perfect pace. One two three, one two three. It’s as though he’s practicing for a recital - and it’s truly no way to spend time relaxing.

“You seem tense,” Nicol notes, “Almost like a robot. Are you thinking about the battles ahead?”

Athrun laughs, “I guess. We don’t know when we could be called for battle, though that’s never mattered to me before.”

“It’s because of the Strike, isn’t it?” Nicol asks, but he’s not stupid. He knows the answer already - watches the tension mount in his friend’s shoulders, strings pulling taut against him.

Nicol listens - he listens to the music he plays, to the advice of his parents. And he listens to Athrun, he always does.

Athrun sighs, “I’ve told the commander that when we meet in battle again, I’ll take out the Strike. That’s all it is. Maybe I’m nervous because the pilot is so tough.”

Between the lines, between the notes and timbre of Athrun’s voice, Nicol hears another reason - the pilot, he doesn’t want to fight the pilot. And Nicol doesn’t dare bring that up. Instead, he just nods and says, “You’re going to be fine. Even if it’s tough, you have the rest of us here. We won’t let you get hurt.”

Athrun smiles; it’s forced, and doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Nicol accepts it. There’s no time for joy when there’s a war to be fought. He thinks of Rusty, and of Miguel. There’s no time for joy, no time for the feeling of piano keys against the pads of his fingers, when so many have lost their lives.

His hands begin to tremble, but he clenches the fabric of his pants. He’s not afraid. He’s not.

///

His father holds special position within the council for the PLANTs. It’s a huge honor, even moreso now that Nicol has enrolled into ZAFT’s army. He hears the whispers from the younger recruits as he walks by; he knows the rumors. Mr. Amalfi pulled all the strings, they say, that his high position within the army and his spot on the highly-coveted Le Creuset team is bought with his father’s money.

He gets angry, but in the end, he lets it all go. His abilities are his alone, and though his skills with the piano are better than his abilities on the battlefield, he’s made a name for himself.

Yzak is stomping through the ship, just like usual. There’s a fire in his voice as Nicol hears him mutter to Dearka, “One of these days, I’m going to be better than Athrun at something.”

“Well, you do have the top record for most losses to him. That must count for something,” the blond quips. Nicol, just about to their location, hears Yzak growl.

He’s about to say hello to his comrades when he hears Yzak grumble, “At least I’m not the weakest in this team. I have a lot more to offer than some.”

It’s biting, jagged in edge, and Nicol has heard it a lot. Especially from Yzak - this is no surprise, but it doesn’t make the churning in his heart feel any less heated.

He knows Athrun is the best, and he knows Yzak is close to Athrun in his abilities. Dearka lacks a lot compared to them, but holds his own on the battlefield. Nicol is Nicol - small, passive Nicol, who hates having to fight even if it’s just an argument. As a Coordinator, he has heightened abilities and skills - he just doesn’t have as much compared to Athrun or even Yzak.

But that’s all right. There’s still plenty more he can do - at least, that’s what he hopes, and that’s always the thought that lulls him into a dreamless sleep.

///  
The gravity of Earth feels suffocating. Perhaps it’s that, or perhaps it’s all of the other things they have to do. They’re chasing the legged ship, of course - meaning Athrun is as tense as ever. Nicol cannot help but feel that same tension mounting. He even tries to imagine returning to space, returning to the PLANTs - he imagines seeing his mother’s face again, feeling her warmth as she embraces him - and again, all he sees is the darkness of the curtains falling upon him. It leaves him feeling unsettled.

Athrun is just as unsettled, though he makes no move to show it. He talks freely, even when he mentions the Strike. Nicol won’t mention it unless Athrun does first - but Athrun seems almost at peace.

“We can only just do what we can,” Athrun says, leaning against the lockers in their launch room. Inside is their flight suits, for when they go into battle. Athrun gives him a short grin and walks away, shoulders slumped from exhaustion.

He’s certain everyone is sleeping peacefully that evening, even Yzak. But Nicol stays awake. His hands continue to tremble, worse than they have before, and so Nicol reminisces with a melody from his previous concert. Athrun had fallen asleep during it - the thought still brings a chuckle bubbling through.

But Athrun’s words remain in his head - just what exactly can he do? What can Nicol Amalfi do besides fight in what feels like an endless war? Follow the commands of his team leader? Of Athrun? He closes his eyes and hears screams, from the Earth Alliance soldiers he fought, from civilians caught in the crossfire, and a black hole begins to gnaw away at his stomach. What can he do? He fights to protect everything he holds dear, but what does that truly mean to him?

He thinks of his parents, he thinks of the innocent people going about their day on the PLANTs, and he thinks of Athrun - of the smallest inkling of hesitation that remains in his voice when he speaks of the Strike, and of the pilot in its cockpit.

Nicol doesn’t sleep that evening.

///

“Looks like we’re nearing ORB territory,” Dearka notes. They’re biding their time, on the bridge of their ship, waiting for orders from the commander. Battle is imminent - they have to stop the legged ship. It’s been their one goal, and their constant failure.

And when the alarm sounds, demanding they all proceed to battle stations, Nicol doesn’t hesitate. He heads to the Blitz, arms still despite the hammering in his chest, and launches with the others.

Battle - it’s where his mind works entirely on instincts. Yzak, always impatient, likes to charge right into battle headfirst, meeting waves of opponents head-on. Nicol hangs back, doing what he can to support as he watches from afar. It makes the Blitz - and its ability to fade away, invisible and undetected, so perfect for him.

When he sees Athrun away from the battlefield - and realizes the Strike has also mysteriously vanished - he uses it to his advantage, pressing the button that allows his mobile suit to use its main ability.

He finds Athrun in the throes of battle with the Strike - and Nicol knows there isn’t much time. The Strike, weapon at the ready, looms over to Athrun’s machine.

He doesn’t hesitate. Nicol removes the Blitz’s ability and comes running for Athrun, shouting a warning, “Athrun, look out!” He brandishes his mobile suit’s knife, ready to reach out and destroy his opponent.

It’s all instinct for soldiers. The need to protect, to keep their friends and the lives of the innocent safe and unharmed. Nicol knows that. It’s also instinct for soldiers to respond to attacks with their own, a reflex of sorts. Nicol knows that too. He watches the Strike move on that instinct, blade moving against the cockpit of Nicol’s own machine-

It hurts-

His hands are trembling more than they ever have. His stomach aches and yet, peculiarly, feels all the more empty. Pain radiates through every pore of his being, and yet he has the energy to raise his hand.

His favorite song comes to mind - the finale piece of every concert he plays, whether it’s to an audience of hundreds or just one to soothe his frantic mother. It’s dramatic in parts, releasing a crescendo before softening and returning to a quiet, dainty melody of keys. Nicol always likes this part - he imagines that the story behind it is quite grand, with a hero returning to see that the work he has done is complete, and everything he’s wanted to accomplish has been done. There’s a serenity in that feeling, and he imagines the hero with a smile on his face. Peaceful.

He hears Athrun scream his name, and though he knows this scene is not what he imagines, he still looks up, as though Athrun is miles and miles above him. His eyes are glossy. His stomach feels wet and his body feels disconnected - from himself, from everything.

But he’s not trembling anymore. What he’s meant to do - this is it. He’s protected people dear to him, just like the grand heroes in the stories. Just like he wished to do when he signed up for the military.

The song comes to an end, just before his machine erupts into a sea of flames and engulfs him effortlessly, and he smiles.

He somehow manages to smile, even as the curtain comes barreling down.

 


End file.
